‘We can’t just sit here for the rest of our lives,’ Golam goes.
Mobu sighs, opens his mouth to say something but stops when he sees Matt. He shuts his mouth. He opens it again to say something but stops when he sees Matt. He shuts his mouth. He opens it again with a different face.
He says, ‘The bus company runs a jeep, for more important people, between Bader and Mozapu via Gonta. When we break down we wait for it. It has our best mechanic on it as the driver’s mate. He can usually help us start. If not, he lets our office at Bader know that we’re stuck. They send a relief bus with any spare parts or equipment needed. It also takes away the passengers while this bus is repaired.
‘Soon it will be beyond help.’
‘How long does all this take?’
‘Can’t say. If all is well, the jeep should be here tomorrow. If it can’t help, then we’ll have to wait till it gets back to Bader to inform the bus company.’
‘And then they’ll send this other bus,’ say I.
‘When they are good and ready,’ says Mobu.
‘This could take days,’ says Golam.
‘At least,’ says the man with a smile and a wink.
‘We don’t find it funny,’ says Hena.
‘I was only trying to cheer you up.’
Hena don’t say nothing, but I can tell she’s not cheered up.
‘If that other bus works better why don’t they use it in the first place?’ says Matt.
‘Because it’s older than this one. It’s all right for occasional use. On a regular basis it would be less reliable than this.’
‘How far d’you think we’re from Bader?’ asks Hena.
‘About the same distance as from Gonta, I should think,’ answers Mobu.
‘That’s helped us a lot,’ I say.
‘But,’ says Mobu with some feeling, ‘the route is pleasanter.’
I look round us at the burning sand and the fiery stones, and then look up at Mobu.
Golam loves the sand and the stones. I don’t.
‘There is only a few kilometres of desert. After that you come to green hills with trees and water, even flowers.’ There is a sudden happiness in his eyes and voice as Mobu speaks of flowers.
‘My wife loves flowers,’ says Mobu softly. I look at him strange. He carries on as before. ‘You could even see the hills from here if it weren’t for the haze.
‘Bader is in the centre of this green belt. That is why it is such a prosperous city. Even in these hard times. That and the fact that the Government spends all its money there instead of on the land where it is really needed, and where it would be much more useful in the long run.’
‘What is prosperous?’ asks Golam.
‘Prosperous means – sort of doing well, you know. Business, factories, hotels… that sort of thing, you know.’
‘Not really,’ I say.
‘It means there is work and food for people,’ says Hena.
‘Well, it’s not quite so simple,’ answers Mobu. ‘There is work and there is food. Plenty of it. Only not for all. A lot for some, not much for others. For some hardly any.’
‘Will there be some for us?’ asks Golam.
Mobu says nothing.
‘Joti will help us,’ I say.
‘We’ll help ourselves,’ says Hena.
*
We decide to walk to Bader. Like we’d planned from the start.
In one way we’re upset on account we’ve had the bus journey for nothing and the white doctor has wasted her money. In another way we’re happy as we’ll be going along a better route.
We ask Mobu if he’d like to come with us.
We can tell by the way he looks he truly wants to, but he can’t.
Leastwise that’s what he says.
He says he can’t leave the bus. He says if he’s so much as away from its shadow, a strange fear takes hold of his heart.
He says it’s ‘psychological’, and explains it all in big useless words.
He says he can’t fight it even though he knows it is ‘irrational’.
He says when he first started riding the bus he could walk away from it, though he always came back. Gradually he stopped walking away from it, but believed he could if he wanted to. Now he knows he can’t, no matter how much he wants it or how hard he tries.
‘What is psychological?’ I ask, looking down, not wanting to appear foolish.
‘It’s… it’s what’s in the mind,’ says Mobu, thinking hard.
‘Isn’t everything?’ I say, also thinking hard.
‘Well, yes and no. I mean only in the mind…’
‘You mean like seeing a cow when there isn’t a cow?’
‘Exactly. But sometimes it is more… more complex. More difficult…’ He tries to think even harder than before.
So do I.
‘You mean,’ I say slowly, ‘if you haven’t had food and you feel hungry it is all right; but if you have had food and you feel hungry it is psychological?’
‘Yes, yes. That’s it.’
‘That is not psychological,’ says Hena, ‘that is greedy.’
‘That too, I suppose,’ says Mobu, looking at Hena more careful than before.
‘And what is irr… irr…’ begins Golam.
‘Irrational?’ says Mobu.
‘Yes. Irr… irr… the same.’
‘Irrational? Let me see. It is something which does not conform to facts; or deviates from or contradicts the validity of external verifiable data; or is inconsistent in itself. But I don’t think that helps you.’
‘No sir,’ says Golam, looking very confused and very sad.
‘He means cuckoo,’ says Hena.
Golam’s face lights up. ‘Why don’t he say so in the first place.’ He flashes his teeth. ‘That’s easy. I was beginning to think I can’t understand or nothing.’
Matt looks like he’s still thinking hard. It also looks like he isn’t listening and doesn’t know what’s going on around him.
But he’s listening and he knows.
‘You say you act irrational,’ he speaks at last, looking straight at Mobu.
‘Yes,’ says Mobu, wondering what Matt has in his mind, same as we are wondering what Matt has in his mind.
‘But you are not,’ says Matt.
We all wait for him to explain, but he don’t.
‘How do you mean?’ Mobu asks, when he knows Matt isn’t about to say no more without being asked.
‘You believe you can’t leave the bus, true?’ says Matt.
‘Yes,’ says Mobu.
‘And do you leave the bus?’
‘No.’
‘That is rational. You are acting as you believe.’
The man thinks this over.
Matt carries on, ‘If you were to get up, dust your clothes and walk away with us, in spite of what you believe, that would be irrational.’
‘But my belief itself is irrational.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is irrational to say that I cannot walk away from the bus. I can get up, as you say, dust my clothes and walk away – if I choose.’
‘Most rational,’ says Matt. ‘If you know this, you can’t be irrational.’
‘I know it but I can’t do it. That’s what’s irrational.’
‘Not particularly. Same as most. No more no less. Most people act on what they believe and not on what they know.’
The man remains quiet for some time, then stands up, dusts his clothes and says, ‘Let’s go.’
He hasn’t walked away from the bus for the last three years.
We start our walk to Bader, all set to steal the city. Like Joti. To steal it, make it our own, and bring it back for our families.
*
We get to Bader. It takes us two days and two nights to get there.
We could’ve made it in half the time, but there were so many soldiers all around the base of the hills and everywhere else that we hid ourselves during the day and walked carefully at night. Of cours
e the soldiers might not’ve said anything to us but we didn’t want to take any chances.
Mobu was right, it was a pleasant route. The hilly part of it. We were sorry to see signs of drying up there as well, but it was green enough and there was water in many holes.
The river that later goes through our village runs from here and it has plenty of water, but it is taken up for use in the big city. There is a ‘dam’ and a ‘reservoir’ in the valley to keep it in. We tried to go up for a closer look but the place was crawling with soldiers. So we moved down to hide. We found a cool leafy spot beside some wild flowers. I got drunk on the scent and went to sleep. My mind danced in dreams. It was like being in the Palace of the Spirits. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was.
When we reach the big city we’re feeling fresh and rested and all looking forward to meeting Joti and finding work and doing well for ourselves and our families.
Mobu says he’ll take us to an old university friend of his called Peter. He says Peter will put us up for a few days in his ‘flat’ till we find Joti and sort ourselves out.
‘Flat what?’ I say.
Mobu looks at me like I look at him – not understanding.
He understands first.
‘Flat… house,’ he says.
‘Flat house?’ I repeat, understanding even less. Flat bread I love, flat land I know, flat heads I’ve seen and flat faces too. But flat houses…
I don’t think I’d fancy living in a flat house. I’d be flattened or something.
I tell Mobu that.
‘It’s not a flat house,’ he says, ‘just a house. On top of a building. It’s called a flat. An apartment.’
‘Oh,’ I say, still wondering why anyone would put a house on top of a building, but not saying it.
*
By now we are all in shock and amazement at the sights of the big city and I forget about the flat.
Mobu takes us to a bus stop. He says the bus from here will carry us near to the place where Peter lives.
I can’t believe the bus when it comes. I can’t believe I’m sitting in it when I’m sitting in it.
My heart still hasn’t settled down. It fell to my knees when the glass door split in half as we neared it, all by itself. I couldn’t hardly bring myself to pass through it in case it closed in on me and swallowed me while I was only half in.
This place we got off at is not as classy as some of the places we’ve been through.
The road here don’t have the face of a smooth slate. It is cracked and holey. The buildings are neither too high nor too low, nor separate, but joined together in a broken sort of a way. There are more people here than I’ve seen before but they aren’t dressed up special smart or anything like that.
They look tired and thin, but nowhere near as bad as the starving and the sick in the camp. Some are even fat.
I ask Mobu why the hungry don’t come here to look for food.
He tells me they’re not allowed. He tells me if they do they are only sent to special camps. He tells me they even check the outside bus for ‘undesirables’.
I think it’s just as well we didn’t come by the bus. Who knows. I mean, I think I’m quite desirable, but who knows. I mean.
Mobu says he’s going to Peter’s flat for the first time after more than three years. Peter’s often been to the bus to see him, though not for some time now.
We come to a few shops with their windows boarded up. Parts of the wood and brick work are black and charred. There are big tin drums standing about the place. They are full of all sorts of paper and bottles and tins. One drum is rolling on its side. Most of its rubbish is spread on the footpath. It don’t smell too good.
We go to a doorway half hidden by piles of empty and not so empty boxes.
There are stairs going up. They are dark. The steps are high and chipped. There is a cold wind blowing here which isn’t blowing outside.
We climb three sets of stairs and turn right after the third. We walk along a dark cold way with shaky fence on the right side of it and three doors on the left. There is a fourth door at the end of it.
Mobu stops in front of the third door and knocks.
There is no answer.
He knocks again.
The door opens very slowly.
Mobu walks in. We follow. We see a broken floor, three chairs and a table with two legs. One side of the table is held up by a pile of books. We don’t see Peter. Or anybody else.
The door bangs shut. There is a man behind the door. He is holding a gun. The gun is pointing towards us.
Two other men appear from behind another door in the room. They too are holding guns. The guns are pointing towards us.
All three men are in uniform. It is not the uniform of the soldiers.
The man behind the outside door says to Mobu, ‘You are William John Adelo, also known as Mobu?’
Mobu’s eyes are wide open, but they are not seeing the man with the gun. They are seeing the black star of death.
The man repeats the question. As he speaks he starts walking towards Mobu. So do the other men.
Mobu makes a rush for the door.
The man in front fires. Many times.
The men behind fire. Many times.
Mobu falls on the floor. He is full of holes. Holes in the face. Holes in the body.
The holes are a lovely shade of red. My favourite colour.
The colour moves, comes to life, and spreads itself all over Mobu.
He begins to look like a painting. A painting with the form of a human being. The black of his skin, the white of his eyes, the grey of his robe, the red of his life.
The men move closer. One kicks him. Mobu quietly turns over on his face. Another kicks him. Mobu quietly rolls back on his back.
The third man nods.
They are satisfied. They smile for the first time. The worry on their faces is no more.
They are looking happy. Like I do when I’ve done what I’ve been told. I know I won’t be told off. Might even get a pat on the back for being a good boy. Maybe a piece of bread. If I’m real lucky.
They go out of the flat.
*
Hena kneels beside Mobu and closes his eyes. She is having difficulty bending her fingers.
She says we should go to the other room to see if there’s a sheet there to cover Mobu’s body.
I hold Golam’s hand and pull hard before he can move.
We leave Matt folded up on the floor, arms around his knees, rocking himself.
The other room has a bed in it. The bed has a sheet on it. But it is not a clean sheet. It is covered with the blood of another man who lies on it.
I feel like someone’s slapped my heart. I see Mobu dying all over again. The man’s eyes move. He looks at us like he don’t know who we are, for of course he don’t know who we are. It is not Mobu.
His lips move. He speaks in a broken whisper.
‘Are you angels of death?’ he says.
‘No we’re not,’ says Golam.
‘You look like death,’ says the man.
‘Perhaps we are,’ says Hena. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Peter.’
‘We came with Mobu. He said you might put us up till we find Joti,’ I say.
‘Mobu shouldn’t have come here,’ says the man in panic, ‘the police are after him.’
‘They’ve got him,’ says Hena. ‘Didn’t you hear the guns?’
The man looks blank for a moment, then looks away. He curls his lips in a cracked sort of a smile and tries to laugh a cracked sort of laugh, but chokes in his blood. He coughs and splutters, then seems to settle down.
‘What about you?’ I ask him.
He don’t speak for such a long time that I begin to get worried for him.
‘They thought I was hiding Mobu,’ he says at last.
He don’t look too good.
‘You don’t look too good,’ says Hena. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘Just help me up,’ he says. ‘I
’ll see if I can clean up a little.’
I hold by the right arm, Hena takes his left arm, Golam supports his waist.
We go to a corner of the room which has a little basin. There is a little metal thing on top of the basin which he calls a tap. When he turns this little metal thing round, water flows out.
I think it’s a miracle.
We help Peter wash himself.
He tells us that as long as Mobu was on the bus they didn’t mind. More than that. They actually enjoyed having him there. Someone they could laugh at. A pathetic ‘ex-revolutionary’, whatever that means. That morning when the bus came and they found out he had left the bus they didn’t like that at all.
They don’t want that.
‘But why should they want to kill Mobu?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure they wanted to kill him. Just hold him for enquiries. I don’t know. No one can really tell what they will do or why.’
I still don’t understand.
Peter carries on, ‘Mobu used to speak against these people. These people who now rule us. At that time they were only trying to take over.
‘When Mobu spoke, we all listened. They didn’t like that.
‘Also, Mobu had written a book. A book they didn’t want written. He hid the draft somewhere.
‘The soldiers abducted Mobu’s wife and raped her. They kept her for days. When they let her go, she killed herself.
‘Mobu was in Bandugu at the time. A day South of Mozapu.
‘He often went there as exchange lecturer in the Bandugu branch of the Mission College.
‘When he came back and heard about his wife, he just went to pieces.
‘One day he went out, took the bus to Mozapu – and never got off.
‘That was more than three years ago.
‘Mobu was twenty-eight that day. Same age as me. Same date of birth even. That’s why I remember the exact day.
‘I had bought a pink tie for him. And a pair of socks. I don’t remember the colour.’
When Peter’s washed up Hena wants to clean up the bed. She also wants to borrow a sheet, if there is one to spare, to cover up Mobu with.
Peter says to look in the cupboard. His body hurts much and he’s not sure if his right arm is not broken and he’s not too happy with his condition from the stomach down either. He says he’ll rest for a while before helping us.
He says he’ll be grateful if we make him a cup of tea.
My Friend Matt and Hena The Whore Page 14